Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter
by StarryGazer
Summary: SLASH. COMPLETE. A hardboiled Snarry for Loupgarou. Sev is a hardboiled detective, Harry's the dame. Sort of The Maltese Falcon, Harry Potter style. Rated R for sexual scenes.
1. Default Chapter

Severus Spade and the Dame that was Harry Potter  
  
I wrote this for the incomparable Loupgarou, who wanted someone to write a story with Sev as the detective and Harry as the dame. She said she couldn't do it, but was sure someone could. So I did. Why not? I despair at ever being able to write anything as hysterical as Loupgarou's works, but I gave this one my best shot.  
  
Thanks to my Beta stellahobitt, as well. When I want something, I want it NOW. And I want reviews on this baby. And I want them NOW. So, tell me. Is it silly enough? Is it smart enough? Am I even in the right time frame? It's supposed to be in just...five?...parts, and part two is about a third done, and the very end is finished, so it won't take much time away from my other projects.  
  
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Part One: The Persuasive Dish  
  
When I walk into my office Monday morning, I see a pair of big green eyes and think; 'Uh oh. This dame is gonna be nothing but trouble.' Turns out I was right; about everything but the dame, that is.  
  
The boy's as good-looking as any dame I've ever seen, with those pretty peepers, long thick lashes, sweet little bow of a mouth and the kinda thick, black hair most chicks would kill for. Wide, innocent eyes. Milky skin. A real ingénue. You know the type. Oh yeah, trouble for sure. He's dressed real swanky too, his suit cut to the latest fashion—a real double-breasted London cut—charcoal colored and open at the neck, letting me see he wears no undershirt. Nothing there but creamy skin. He's dressed real nice, all right, but he looks kinda young to be hangin' around my part of town. I put him in his teens, not full height yet, slender body accentuated by the suit, and a face of flawless, smooth skin.  
  
I give him my best intimidating look. I'm usually good at that; a scowl from me'll scare most kids silly. Not this kid. He just gives me this long, cool look, then dips his fingers into the inner pocket of that suit. I see that, and my revolver's in my hand before I know what I'm doing. It's instinct; see? It's why I'm still around.  
  
Silently, he slips out a golden cigarette case. It has a lion engraved on the front. He doesn't look even a little impressed with my gun, and it kind of burns me. I fight down the urge to give him a closer look at my piece.  
  
"Cute little thing like you shouldn't be nosing around places like this," I tell him, arching a brow and putting the .44 away. He slowly puts the cigarette to his lips and purses them around it. I dig into my pocket and get him a light. "Your parents know you're out here?" I ask him. "Your mama finds out you been spending time on this side of the tracks, and you're gonna get a spanking," I inform him.  
  
He smiles at me, blowing a long cloud of smoke out. "Why don't you just save her the trouble?" he suggests. I don't say anything, but move around him to my desk and pull out a cigar and light up myself. Pretty soon the room is filled with thick smoke.  
  
"What are you doing here, anyhow?" I finally ask him.  
  
"Are you the S.S. on the door?"  
  
"Yeah," I grunt. I have the initials S.S. on my door, right before the P.I. "Severus Spade, Private Investigator," I introduce myself.  
  
He sticks out a slender hand. "Harry Potter." I shake his hand, and he doesn't let go right away. "I've got a case for you," he tells me.  
  
I don't know why, but there's something about this kid that's off. I shake my head. "I got plenty of cases already," I tell him.  
  
"That's not what the police chief says." He smiles again, and inwardly I curse. Dumbledore, always passing me the pity case. Always using me to keep an eye on the underworld. Someday I'm gonna tell the old man where to get off. The kid sits in the seat across from me, crossing his legs elegantly. His jacket falls open, and I can see more of that skin. Yeah, someday I'll tell him. But maybe not today.  
  
"What kind of case you got?" I enquire around the stogie. He licks his lips a little, and I almost forget to listen to the words.  
  
"Something's been stolen from me. I want it back," he says plainly. I like plain. Plain is easy. It's right or it's wrong, and it's a lie or it's a truth, but at least there isn't any gray. I hate gray.  
  
"Uh-huh," I say, leaning back in my chair, sweeping my hair back before putting my fedora back on, pushing it down over my eyes a bit, so he can't see how closely I'm studying him. "What, exactly, are we talking about here? A jewel, some money, rare art, what?"  
  
He bites his lip. Very nice. "A prophecy," he murmurs. "It's an ancient text that came straight out of Tibet. It was my godfather's. He recently passed away. In his will, he left it to me, but we couldn't find it."  
  
"How do you know he still owned it, then? Times are hard. Maybe he traded it for enough green to keep a roof over his head, food in his mouth, that type of thing."  
  
The youth shook his inky dark head. "He would never have done that. It was too important to him."  
  
"Yeah? What exactly is this ancient prophecy you lost, anyway? Why would anyone want to steal it?"  
  
"It's a Buddhist text. Roughly translated, its title would be something like, 'The Route to Agharta.' It's never been dated; my godfather's family has had it for generations, and never let anyone touch it. The museums alone would be aching to get their hands on it." He turns the lights on in those eyes, and yeah, I can tell he wants something. Whether it's me or the manuscript, that's something else again.  
  
"Agharta, huh? Never heard of it," I tell him.  
  
He gives me this cute, crooked smile. "It's sort of like heaven, as far as I understand it."  
  
"Oh, I can show you that right here."  
  
"I'm afraid I'd never consider anywhere heaven, not with the loss of my godfather's prized possession hanging over my head."  
  
"And what if you got it back?" I kick my feet up on the desk, folding my hands behind my neck.  
  
"Well, that WOULD be heaven, wouldn't it?" I could swear his eyelashes fluttered. Subtlety is not young Mister Potter's middle name.  
  
"You're playing with fire, kid," I mutter, not really caring if he hears me. Then, louder, "And if you don't get it back?"  
  
"Then that would be hell."  
  
"Nah, I could show you that, too. Much worse than not seeing Daddy's heirloom again, I can tell you that." I puff a couple of times, and watch a distressed look cross his face.  
  
"But I have to get it back! You don't understand; I'll die if I don't!"  
  
"You'll die anyway. Eventually." Then the tears well up, and I know I'm a goner. Never could turn anyone down when they started the waterworks.  
  
"I've got money," he says, sounding just a tad hysterical. "Fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. A car. A secretary. Name your price. I must have your help!" He leans over and presses his hand over mine.  
  
"Fifty clams a day, huh? Car...secretary...where are you going to get me a secretary?" I gotta admit, I could use one of those. Not for company—you might have already noticed broads ain't my thing—but the filing doesn't do itself, and the last one walked out on me when I missed her third paycheck in a row. Like I said, times are hard.  
  
He flushes, lowers his eyes. "Well, I was planning to offer to volunteer for the job myself," he tells me, causing my eyebrows to shoot up. He gets all defensive. "Hey, I'm educated; I can file, I can answer the phone. I've got gorgeous short-hand."  
  
"That I don't doubt. All right, first five days up front, and I'll do it." This is a test. If he gives me the money right off, he's desperate, stupid, or that map to heaven is bona fide and worth its weight in gold.  
  
He gets a slant on me for a long moment, and I almost smile. He's not a dumb as he is pretty. "One day up front," he offers. "And I'll want to be kept up to date on anything you find out."  
  
"If you're gonna be around the office," I point out, "you will be."  
  
He nods, and we shake on it. I don't know if I'm going to regret this or not, but as his silky palm slides across mine, I figure; what the hell. If nothing else, it's bound to be quite a ride.  
  
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Oooohhh...I hope you like it! I've never watched Casablanca (why didn't you smack me with this plot bunny earlier in the week, Loupgarou, so I could PREPARE!) or any other Humphrey Bogart flick—outside of Sabrina. I heard in real life he drooled really badly, and that's why he kept that handkerchief around. That grosses me out, so I can't watch him without getting sick. Please review and let me know what you think. Plot ideas would also be appreciated, as I only have a sketchy idea of the whole middle of this, although the end is finished. Tell me its good enough to keep! StarryGazer 


	2. Part 2: Daddy’s Swinging Palace

Thanks to Rachel for all her stellar ideas! Much gratitude also goes to the lovely as always Adele Sparks, Agar, ataraxis and fringe lily. Thanks for reviewing, dolls!

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Part 2: Daddy's Swinging Palace

The next thing I know we're in his car, passing Forty-Ninth and Long. Damn kid wants to play driver, too. I guess I don't mind so much. He's got a nice profile. Better than watching the scenery. He's got a Silver Wraith. An honest to God Rolls. Mint condition, too. I've never gotten close enough to spit on one before, let alone take a ride. Makes me kind of nervous. This kid's got that kind of green, he can afford the big time. What's he want my services for?

I figure I should be upfront; just come out and ask him. So I do. "Why me?" I say watching him from the corner of my eye.

"I like you," he retorts. "What've you got to complain about? Besides, it had to be somebody, didn't it? Why not you? Sure, there are a lot of men out there, but...you might as well be the one." He's flirting again.

"Uh-huh. You sure know how to make a fellow feel special." I go over the facts in my head again, but there practically aren't any, so I start asking him questions. He seems nervous at first, but loosens up as he starts talking about his godfather.

"He was a wonderful man—you would have loved him." I hate him already. "He was right about you're age, I think. How old are you? Early forties?"

"Bad manners," I chastise him. "Keep it up and you'll get a ruler across your knuckles."

"Just my knuckles? Ah, well. At any rate, his family had a habit of collecting things—any old thing, really. You should have seen that house when we went start cleaning it out—Dear God, there was a stuffed lion in the attic corner. I took down a box and came face to face with it. I just about died. I wondered what my obituary would say—I thought I was about to get eaten alive."

"You still might."

He grins at this. "I'm always open to new experiences. At any rate, he'd bragged about this text before—mostly because everyone envied it so much."

"Sounds like a swell fellow," I tell him dryly.

"He wasn't like that, really," the boy protests. "His family was a tree full of snobs, but he was actually a decent man. He loved his collection mostly because it frustrated all the other upper crusts out there. His so-called 'peers'—who hated him. It was a beautiful text, supposedly about the true passage to Shambhala. Of course, it was never translated. He wouldn't hear of it. He couldn't bear the thought of one of those 'beady-eyed academics' getting their filthy hands on it, even for a moment."

"Sounds like a well-educated man. Wait a minute, Shambhala?" Where have I heard that word before? Suddenly it hits me; the little Asian panhandler that hangs out near my building. I start to laugh. "Your godfather's prized possession was a map to Shangri-la," I chuckle. "That's priceless."

"It is, actually," he tells me a little stiffly. His pretty hands are gripping the wheel tightly. "It could be worth quite a bit to the right buyer. So what if Shambhala isn't real? The text is, and the text is valuable. If you can't appreciate its spiritual merits, you ought to be impressed with its estimated cost on the black market."

"Which is?"

"I wouldn't know. I only know they'd kill to get their hands on it." He sounds angry, at me or the crooks, I can't guess. "Is it too silly a thing for you to waste your time on?" he asks me. "Will I have to raise your pay?" he adds, and it's my turn to get hot.

"Look," I say to him, "I'm not exactly rolling in scratch, but I do all right. If all I cared about was money, don't you think I'd be a little better off than I am now? I got standards, you understand? You want your text back, I'll get your text back, whatever baloney it's about."

He looks only partly mollified, and I suggest he start naming some names to take his mind away from the argument. "Who do you think did it?"

"Voldemort," he replies.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ." Voldemort is like a newer version of Capone, only much, much worse. Capone just drove the cops crazy, ran bootlegging and gambling businesses, and murdered people. He never tortured anyone, and the 'Big Fellow,' doesn't sound nearly as ominous as the 'Dark Lord.' The Dark Lord enjoys torturing people. He's also my ex-boss. Yeah, I ran with the wrong crowd, way back when. I'm still trying to live that down. "Why would he go and do something like that?" I ask cautiously. Now I'm wondering if I shouldn't have asked for more money. Well, hell; I KNOW I should have asked for more money, but those big green eyes had me knocked for a loop. And now look what I'm into.

"I'd ask him, only most people who ask Voldemort questions have this way of ending up dead. That's one of the reasons I need you. You CAN handle this, can't you?" He sneaks a sideways glance at me, and I can see the edge of a smile on that rosy mouth.

"Me, I can handle pretty much anything."

"Cocky, aren't we?" Now he's smiling outright, and it's one of those mischievous numbers that makes my pulse race.

"You better believe it," I tell him, and wonder why I can't seem to shut my yap. I do sound kind of cocky, and that's the sort of thing that can get you noticed by the wrong people in this town.

He's quiet for a few moments, like he's thinking. Suddenly he asks me, "So, what should I call you?"

I shrug. "We have a business relationship, so you can call me Mister Spade," I suggest, knowing that he's not going to bite.

He snorts. "I'd rather call you Severus. I don't give a damn about business." People usually don't, when business is good. "We have two business relationships, one where I'm paying you, one where I'm working for you. It'd be about as appropriate to call you Boss." I glare at him, and he smiles slowly. "You don't like that, big boy? I like that. I like that a lot."

There isn't any more time for his come-ons because we've reached his godfather's house. If I were a copper, I'd want to start there because it was the scene of the crime. But I'm not, and I know better so I don't. But I don't have any better ideas at the moment, not except for a chat with old Voldie, and if I was to go right up and ask him, 'Hey, glom any rare Tibetan texts lately?' I'd be willing to bet I'd swallow a few teeth for my troubles. If I was lucky.

So that leaves Daddy Warbucks and his swinging palace. Of course, Daddy Warbucks is dead, but the palace is still a palace. A mansion, the real McCoy, and I'm telling you, it SPRAWLS. We walk across the grounds, and I'm still asking every question that pops into my pretty little head.

"What did Pops do for a living?"

He shrugs. "Inherited, mostly."

Figures. Now I _really _ hate the bastard. "How did he die?"

He hesitates. "Heart stopped. Must not have been living right; you know? A guy his age, he ought to have gotten out and exercised, instead of being trapped in this old monstrosity. Do you get enough exercise, Severus?"

Out comes Mister Wise-Guy again. I ignore him. The place really is a monstrosity, dark and dirty and overgrown with ivy. The black windows peer out at us like soulless eyes. The yard's a mess, and the whole outfit could do with a lick or two of paint. "Why's it such a dump?" I enquire tactfully. Well, diplomacy never was my strong suit. That's why I didn't make it on the force. Didn't kiss enough ass. Or maybe, didn't kiss the RIGHT asses. Or maybe it was because I did kiss the WRONG ones. Or I suppose it coulda been the hooch. It doesn't matter; it's all the same, now. "Don't tell me he couldn't afford to keep the place up?"

He looks at me, kind of excited, like. "That's the thing! He never even let people on the grounds. He didn't trust anyone—outside of me, that is. And one or two others; Lupin, his cousin Tonks. And he was friends with the Chief, of course, but I don't suspect HIM. Do you?"

"Not of stealing your godfather's text," I tell him, trying to sound noncommittal. We're greeted at the door by a wrinkled old geezer—I swear, one puff of air could send him skittering along like a dead leaf. He's just a tiny, shriveled up old man, and he gives us a glare that rivals my own. I'm almost impressed.

"Little hoodlum Potter, come home to steal more of our precious family treasures?" he sneers at the boy, mocking him snidely.

"Shut your trap, Kreacher," the boy responds sternly. The old man wanders away into the house, muttering under his breath. "I apologize about him," he gives me an awkward smile. "He came with the house; family will says so long as he lives, he lives here. Sirius didn't much like him either."

The man would have made a good suspect—if he could even lift the text. I doubt he could, even if it was as ancient and dried up as him. We walk around the house, and I ask some more questions. The joint is mostly cleared up, but there's still flotsam and jetsam here and there. He shows me where they kept the item—on a real, live pedestal. There just isn't anything to be gained here—it may look like the wreck of the Old 97, but the place is actually about as secure as Fort Knox. There are locks everywhere. Harry tells me there was also a big damn guard dog, but that went when the master died. I just don't get it. This place is practically airtight. So where did this famous Tibetan literature go?

We hear the front door open, and Harry leads me into the front hall, where a gray-haired man is hanging up his hat. He's got a face like a newspaper that got wadded up before someone decided to try smoothing it out to read it, and big dark pits under his eyes. He don't look like he's been sleeping well—hell, if it wasn't for the digs, the look on his face would make me think he's got more creditors than I do. Maybe he does. Just because he's livin' in a nice place don't mean anything.

"Lupin," Harry says, and actually goes to hug the guy. I bite my lip to keep from snarling at the sap. Easy tiger. "How're you doing?"

The man gives a tired smile. "I'm just fine, thanks." We all know he's lying. I don't know what he's in, but he's in it deep. He reaches out to shake my hand, and he has a grip like a gorilla. For a scrawny fellow, he sure can crush knuckles. "Remus Lupin," he tells me, and I nod.

"Severus Spade," I reply. He's looking me over, seeing where I don't fit. Considering the location, everywhere pretty much covers it.

"Friend of Harry's?"

"Actually, he's a private dick. He's going to see if he can help track down the relic, and help us find the thief, " Harry reveals, and I curse the kid, even though we haven't covered any of that.

I watch the man warily, and realize his eyes are as yellow as daisies, and nowhere near as friendly. If this man has a mouth that opens at the wrong time, the Dark Lord will put me six feet under by the end of the week. I give him as hard a look as he's giving me.

"Harry…" is all he says, but I can hear the question. 'Why the hell are you hanging around with this slimeball? Why don't we find ourselves a real professional?'

"Don't, Remus. Dumbledore recommended him." The man's shoulders sink a little at that, admitting defeat. I've been there. Have I ever.

"Well…do be careful, Harry. Look; last night was a long one, I need to get some sleep. You let me know if you need any help, any at all," he tells him. Harry smiles and waves him off to bed.

As we're walking back to the car, Harry confides in me; "He was my godfather's best friend. Ever since they were kids. He's taking it pretty hard."

He might be, or he might just have taken it; I haven't made up my mind yet. "Can you think of anywhere else we might want to have a look around?"

"Nah."

"Then let's head back downtown. I wanna put my ear to the ground, see what the word on the street is." He looks eager to try this, and I wipe the smile away that's trying to take root on my face. 'Don't get sweet on this kid,' I tell myself as we drive away. He's a looker, all right, but the lookers are always heartbreakers.

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As always, I love a review! Tell me you love me, or that I'm fabulous, or give me good ideas, or just ramble, I'm easy to please. Fairly easy to please. Right now, sleep would please me best, so that's where I'm headed. Kisses and Moonshine! Starry


	3. Part 3: Drinking Out of the Same Bottle

I guess I should also give credit to Dashiell Hammett, for the Sam Spade that I'm pseudo-knocking off. Maybe he's rolling in his grave, I don't know. Better knocking him off than knocking him up, right? And Harry and Sev. and the rest aren't mine, either. I'm guessing you knew that.  
  
This is loupgarou's gift, but I have to thank my awe-inspiring Betas Rachel and Stellahobbit, as well. They haven't seen this one yet, so I'll have to repost it when they're done, but hey. You get the sexy, rough-stubble kind of version, right? I used Rachel's bit about the gear shift in this chapter: unadulterated comedy. 'Cause they're not married, right? ; )  
  
And thanks to my beloved Adele Sparks, as always, for encouraging me as she usually does, (I knew the Edmund probably wasn't right, but I was too tired and lazy to look it up. It sounded so good, too!)  
  
Thanks as well to Chris Vineyard, ataraxis, who is a great brace in times of irritation, Ayame Kyoko (I haven't heard of Tex, but I will definitely check him out and let you know what I think!) and Spiral-Digger—I'm so glad you're enjoying it!  
  
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Part 3: Drinking Out of the Same Bottle  
  
There's a speakeasy on the west side of town, just past the old bridge, so that's the first place I hit. No, it ain't the only joint in town, but I gotta couple of close friends in there—practically the only ones you won't find in a bottle or the chamber of a gun. Well, to tell you the truth, we're really not all that close. We're just some guys that happen to like the same joint, the same juice, the same atmosphere. If a little talk happens to go along with it, so much the better.  
  
I didn't feel quite right taking Harry there, though, so I made him drop me off and promise to head back to the office. He wasn't happy with that—not one bit. But after a while of cursing me under his breath, he agreed. "Get some damn filing done," I advised him. "It's been almost a month since anybody touched the filing, and it's driving me right up the wall. How do you expect me to concentrate, with papers all over the place?" It was an out and out lie—the ONLY time I can think is when everything's a mess. Maybe that's why I keep my life that way.  
  
He only gives me this sultry look, just before he's ready to drive away. We're in front of Fletcher's, and I'm leaning in the window, and he looks me right in the eye with those iridescent high beams of his and says, "Trust me, Severus. With ME around, you'll never spare a THOUGHT for the filing." He winks and guns the engine, so I step back and let him roar away from the curb. Cheeky little bird.  
  
Filch is already in place by the time I walk in, and it's not even five in the afternoon. Of course, Filch REALLY likes the atmosphere. Me, I bring my own in a hip flask. Nothing against Fletcher, I just really prefer homemade. It's just about the only thing I do well, anymore. Filch nods at me as I take my seat.  
  
Fletcher, the little weasel, sets a glass in front of me, as if I'm gonna use it. "What'll it be, Sev?" he asks, grinning widely.  
  
"Pickled onions," I reply, disgruntled. Filch rolls his eyes at me and knocks back another glass. He's seen us do this same routine a thousand times before, and somewhere along the way, he's ceased to find it entertaining. So have we, really.  
  
"I hear where you've gone and picked up a new honey," Fletcher croons at me, and I scowl.  
  
"I hear where you been drivin' around in fancy cars and thinkin' you're too good for the likes of us," Filch merrily jumps in, hoping to sow some dissent. He's the type of guy who ain't happy unless everyone else is miserable.  
  
"Would I do that to you?" I ask him. "My good pals?" No answer. "Next drink's on me," I tell Filch, and he looks almost disappointed. No dissent tonight.  
  
"So, you hear I'm running around with a new fellow, huh? What else is running around the rumor mill?" I lean back in my seat and pull out my flask. It's gonna take a while to get to the point, and I plan on enjoying myself in the meantime.  
  
"Heard the new boy's quite a dish," our host leers knowingly.  
  
"I'm sure he'd say the same of you, Dung Beetle," I tell him. Dung Beetle is Fletcher's nickname, owing to the fact he roots around everywhere and finds something useful in all of it. Or so he tells us.  
  
"I hear he's quite a catamite," Filch interjects. "A regular little harlot," he adds, and Dung's face goes tense. It wouldn't be the first time I threw a punch just because I'd been drinking and somebody insulted my companion, but hell, Harry wasn't even here, and I wasn't sure how I felt about him, anyway.  
  
"Well, that should make me an easy in then, shouldn't it?" I reply, shrugging it off.  
  
Dung's face relaxes again, and Filch snorts. "You're an easy in to anyone—so long as they're too blind to get a gawk at your schnozzle or greasy hair." He takes a long swig of his drink—MY drink; I paid for it.  
  
"It's a roman nose." I take a swig from my flask companionably. "They call it 'classic' or something."  
  
He chuckles wheezily. "Does that mean it's ancient, like the rest of you?"  
  
"Aw, zip it already. Anything else interesting floating around?"  
  
"Wait a minute, we didn't even get started on my news!" he protests. "I hear that boy of yours—what's his name? Potter? I hear he got to play houseboy for the Malfoys. Ha ha; although if it turned to play, my bet is on rough and tumble and green-eyes down on his knees—"  
  
"Shut it," I order him, and he shuts. People that know me do, when they hear me use that tone. My blood had turned cold. Malfoy. No way in hell, except that it was entirely possible. I didn't even know the kid! Who knew who he did in his spare time? And his manners entirely fitted a much lower class than he dressed—he was far too brazen and tactless to be upper class. Could Malfoy be his sugar daddy? Possible—far too possible. I make a mental note to have it out with the kid tonight.  
  
I look at Filch's face; he's still frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth, like I'm gonna pull something. His eyes are all bugged out, and I'd laugh if I didn't half feel sorry. "Either of you hear of a guy named Lupin?" I change the subject.  
  
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I'm hoofing it down the street—since I don't have a car—and my mind is buzzing with things. Not the least of which is the homemade giggle juice that's still drowsing around in my blood. I'm thinking over what I've just been told. It's raining out, and that's always a good thing. Keeps at least some of the bad boys indoors, and creates this wet, thrumming world that's all my own. I've done some of my best thinking in a torrential downpour. Just my luck this is merely a passing shower.  
  
I wonder if Harry knows about Lupin. Nah. Lupin acted too goody two shoes when he saw the boy. I still can't hardly believe it. Lupin is Moony. Moony is Lupin. Half of me wants to laugh and say, 'Yeah, and so's your old man!' But it kind of fits. He LOOKS right, somehow. Moonshine Moony, shaking my hand like I'm Voldemort his self. Or the mayor, or something. Moony sells to the biggest—in bulk. For any price he names. I wonder again if Harry knows, but shake my head once again, agreeing with my earlier thought. It just can't be.  
  
If I know Moony is Lupin, then others are bound to know, as well. I wonder exactly who knows. I wonder if that has something to do with the deep circles under his eyes, and the fact that he looks haunted. He's got some kind of problem, I could tell that by looking at him. I wonder if stealing scrolls from Tibet would have lightened his load. Maybe I'll ask him.  
  
I'm walking past an alley, when I hear a deep, grunting voice; "Get 'im." I spin around, ready to pull my gun, but I was in too much of a trance, too deep in thought. 'Last time anyone will ever accuse me of THAT,' I think, as a meaty hand claps over my mouth. I try to bite down, but these guys are like, PROFESSIONALS, and they drag me back into the shadows with the barest scuffle.  
  
I kick back and feel my heel connect with something—presumably the guy's shin, unless he's a real contortionist. His hand loosens its grip, and I struggle free of it. "What the hell do you want?" I demand, kicking and squirming in the grasp of the vise-like arm around my middle. It's pinning my hands to my sides, rendering me pretty much unable to fight back. But at least my mouth's free, right? That's gotta be a help. "You mother lovin' sons of shit-eating pigs!" I holler, and Mister Arm reaches his other around me to shut me up again. Yeah, that was a big, big help.  
  
The other goon steps forward, and I recognize the face. He's one of us—fuck, wait—I'm not one of THEM, not anymore. He's on the force, but he's in someone else's pocket. Voldemort's. 'Goyle?' I almost gasp, but then I realize that, considering the circumstances, this might not be the wisest thing to do. Just occasionally, I'm capable of circumspection. Normally, it's all I can do to spell it.  
  
"You'd better stay outta this, flatfoot," Goyle warns me. He emphasizes his statement with a blow to my gut that takes my air out. Then he punctuates the remark attempting to puncture a lung. This thug is one hell of a conversationalist. Then he concentrates on saying things to my face for a while. Once he and his buddy are through with me—not that his chum did much, but I appreciated being held up through it all—they start to meld back into the shadows. "Just a friendly warning, like," he tells me. I can't help but wonder who writes his lines—they really oughta try being less cliché.  
  
I prod myself for damage, and I'm happy to find that there isn't much. I think my chest will be a little sore, but I've had much, much worse. My face is in worse shape—my nose probably took the brunt of it. Yeah, maybe I don't look so pretty, but I don't look too dead, either.  
  
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When I stumble into the office, Harry practically leaps out of his seat. I can see him trying to decide if this is an everyday occurrence, and I start to laugh. Unfortunately. Laughing might be some great medicine, like they say, but it's doing a hell of a lot more harm than good, right now. He gently takes my jaw in his hand and turns it this way and that. "It looks like you've been building character," he tells me, and I start to laugh again. It hurts. "You need me to get you a doc or something?" My nose is still kind of gushing, but I ignore it. If you ignore it, it'll go away, right?  
  
"I'm fine, I'm fine," I assure him. What I need is a good night's sleep.  
  
"Well, come on, then." He slides his arm around me and drags, carries, and—for the sake of my pride—'assists' me to the car. Damn if I don't feel proud. I'm about to bleed to death in an honest-to-God Rolls. Maybe I didn't solve the case, but that shouldn't stop me from dying happy, anyhow. I'd get to dirty up a rich man's toy on my way out, at any rate, and that would be kind of satisfying.  
  
We're heading down the road before I know it, into an even worse part of town. I'm pinching the bridge of my nose, too self-involved to think much of where we're going.  
  
"What happened?" he finally asks.  
  
I shrug. "I heard some guy call you a floozy, and I decided to teach him a lesson." If it's good enough to warrant the hip flask, it's STRONG. Maybe I shoulda said when. I hate it when I get all flippant. Only thing worse is when I get sentimental.  
  
"By beating your face into his fist?" He looks amused, but still concerned. A good combination. Amused, concerned, and naked is the way I like 'em, but hey, what're you gonna do?  
  
"Come on, I'd do anything for you." My voice is a little nasal, but I'm feeling frisky, and it comes through in the tone.  
  
"Anything?" he smirks at me as he caresses the gear shift. The whole smile gear shift thing has my pulse racing like a nag at the racecourse.  
  
"Where are we going, anyhow?"  
  
"Gotta drop Betsy off," he tells me. "Don't want anything to happen to her."  
  
I listen to this in horrified fascination, wondering if he hasn't named some body part in a fit of whimsy, but then it don't make much sense to want to drop it off. Does it?  
  
"The car, Sev," he clarifies, catching my look. I shake my head a little.  
  
"Lost too much bootleg, drank too much blood," I inform him, and he laughs a little.  
  
"Take a rest, you boozehound," he tells me.  
  
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R&R as always! Any tips are greatly appreciated. The 'who' instead of 'what' was intended, earlier, btw...I sure hope you guys like! Starry 


	4. Part 4: A Little Less Plot and Lot More ...

Part 4: A Little Less Plot and Lot More Action …Eventually

Next thing I know, a bunch of strong arms are helping me outta the car. "I can walk. I can walk, dammit!" I tell them. I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it must not have helped, because I'm still seeing everything twofold. Two stocky, red haired baby grands are in front of me, looking from me to Harry and back again, but not quite in sync. THAT makes me really dizzy. I mean; if a fellow is going to go and double on your vision, the least he can do is coordinate with himself, right?

"Fred, George, let's get him inside," Harry says, and I find myself practically carried into this little rundown shack that's just BURSTING with kids. Only one or two are younger than Harry, but I still think of them all as kids.

"Whoa, what happened to HIM?" a voice cries, and a few minutes later, there's this bright light that comes out of nowhere with a loud 'pop.' I remember some line someone had about this, '_Go into the light,' _was it? Shit, did I DIE? I feel kind of panicky. It was just a bloody nose! "Look at all that blood!"

"Ron, knock it off with the camera, would you? Where's your mom?" Harry sounds aggravated. I open my eyes cautiously, still seeing white lights. To be safe, I pull my hat down over my eyes.

"Dropping supper off for Arthur," a girl's voice pipes up. "And what DID happen to him?" We peer at each other, and I almost groan in dejection. Curly haired girl—rather big teeth—Granger. "I know YOU," she gasps. "Hey, you're that P.I.! The one that got the jewel thief when the real bulls couldn't track him down! Can I ask you some questions? Hey, Ronnie, get a picture!" The only thing I hate worse than a photographer is a chipper reporter. God, give me to Voldemort; at least he won't insist I was an 'underdog' with a 'heart of gold' who did it all 'for the right reasons, fighting the powers that be.'

"No, don't—" Pop! Oh, good. Blue stars to go along with the white ones. Should I put my hand over my heart and sing when we get to red? "Leave him alone, guys." We sit at the kitchen 'table'—cinderblocks with boards—and discuss current affairs. In other words, we gossip. Well, _they_ do. I just listen and nod, feeling beat. Literally.

Granger is going non-stop. At least she's good at digging for gold. Almost as good as Dung Beetle. I wonder, if he were a reporter, which of them would out-scoop the other? "So, the rumor is Voldemort is backing Hitler now, only Hitler wants some kind of payoff. Voldemort has it, or maybe he doesn't. Someone does, and Voldemort's plans center around something he maybe hasn't got. I think if he had it, he'd be in bed with Hitler right now. So my guess is, it's still floating around somewhere." She's thinking out loud, at the moment. Her writing is less erratic than her chatter, but still just as irritating.

She's still prattling on, and I find myself thinking of that Tibetan doodad. Is that what Voldemort has/doesn't have? It sort of fits—everyone knows Hitler's into religious stuff, so long as it can be twisted to sound like it backs the Nazi party. A map to heaven—a heaven in Tibet? Maybe if it stipulates that you have to goosestep to get in, I muse.

"You feeling better?" Harry asks me. I'm drinking my second juice—ACTUAL juice this time, and I do feel better.

"Uh-huh." I feel his hand slide up my thigh under the makeshift table.

"Maybe we should get going," he suggests.

"I'm all for getting going right now," I respond, keeping my face neutral. We run into a run down woman coming in the front door. She has another redhead with her, and by her haggard face, I'm guessing she's their mother. "How many kids do you _have,_ anyhow, lady?" I can't help blurting out as another tyke knocks into my knees on his way past. I mean; I'm all for keeping warm in the winter, but jeez!

"I don't know if I can count that high," she sighs. "Actually, they're not all mine—we've got cousins staying here while Bobby's out of work." I nod. There's got to be ten people living in that place, all in just a couple of rooms. They say times are getting easier, but I sure ain't seeing it.

Harry has Fred, one of the twins—twins! Damn things ought not to crop up when you're drunk and head-sore—drive us to the place Harry's staying.

"This dump is worse than mine!" I complain as we get out.

He flushes. "It was the best I could get, on short notice. I really didn't want to stay in Sirius's house anymore."

"But I thought you were rolling in it! And what's so bad about that chicken coop that you'd rather stay here?"

"No one died here," he remarks.

"Prove it."

"All right, smart guy. No one I loved died here. Besides, I'm not 'rolling in it.' My parents had money, but they died and left it in a trust. I won't get it for a few years. Everything you see of any value was given to me by Lupin or Sirius, because my aunt and uncle, who raised me, spend all their dough on their real kid." He sounds bitter, leading me into the falling down complex. The door bangs shut behind us.

"KEEP IT DOWN, GOD DAMMIT!" A piercing voice screeches from the back.

"Sorry, Mrs. Figg!" Harry calls into the other room.

"I SAID SHAAAAADUUUUP!"

He ignores her. "Want a nightcap?" he offers coyly. I need that like I need Voldemort in my underwear, but I don't say that. I still need to talk to him about earlier. I follow him up the stairs to his room, which is about what you'd expect. I mean; it's essentially worth about the same as whatever you get in a Cracker Jack box, but it's livable. More or less. Harry walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, kicking his legs out in front of him. They seem longer that way, more seductive. They're stretching out towards me like they want something, and I can pretty much guess what. I shut the door behind me.

"KEEP IT DOWN UP THERE!" A thudding on the floor, probably a broom, lends a real cozy ambiance to the place. Harry's grinning at me. "Sorry, Mrs Figg!" he calls again, looking anything but.

"Have a seat," he suggests coyly, and I notice there aren't any chairs. Real cute.

I walk up and stand in front of him, reaching out and running a finger along his jaw line. His eyes flutter shut, and I can feel him shiver a little at my touch. I keep my voice low and seductive as I murmur into his ear. "What's between you and Malfoy, Mister Potter?"

He jerks back from my touch and his eyes fly open. All kinds of thing flit across them, like a breeze in a green field. Anger, frustration, guilt, embarrassment, you name it. He sticks his chin out, and I think he's gonna be stubborn, but then his shoulders slump. "I used to. He sorta." The words ain't coming easy, but I'm not leaving until I've heard 'em all.

"Spent more time on an incline than upright?" I suggest, arching a brow, and he flushes. Funny, how a kid can _do_ things like that, no problem. But discuss them afterward?

"Something like that," he admits tightly. "Look, I had a fight with my aunt and uncle, and Sirius was still in the big house—"

"Prison!? Why am I just hearing about this now?"

He grits his pearly teeth. "He didn't do it, all right? He was set up. The police chief knows he didn't do it."

"So then Dumbledore let him out?" I suggest sarcastically.

"He crushed out, and I'm glad! All right? He was innocent and got sent up the river—"

"And how about Malfoy? Is he _innocent,_ do you think? Because I can tell you from first hand experience, 'innocent' and 'Malfoy' won't even be found in the same room together."

"I know that," he grates. "That's why I came to you. Because you know your way around them—around all of them. And hell, no, Malfoy isn't innocent! I let him do those things because I had to! I didn't have a dime when I left the Dursleys, and Lupin was off God knows where, and Sirius was still in prison and I didn't even know him—so I did what I had to do! All right? Are you happy?" He's really shouting, now, and the landlady's broom and her monotonous shrieking are lending to the tension in the atmosphere. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright as newly struck matches. He looks good. He looks very, very good.

"I'm just ecstatic, Mister Potter," I snarl. "I find you've been lying to me this whole time, about nearly every damn angle, and you stand here shouting at me, like _I'm_ the one doing something wrong? Oh, ho—brother, you got some kinda nerve!"

"You stand there reeking of eel juice and you're judging me? You can shut your lousy trap! I don't give a hoot _what_ you think of me." He's right up in my face, and I flinch. The noise is going straight to my head—the same spot the liquor hit earlier, but in not so nice a way. "Oh, does that _bother_ you?" he yells. "I hope it does, 'cause I'm gonna stand right here and if you don't like it—" Problem is I _do_ like it. Well, not the headache.

"Hey, reel it in a bit, Mister Potter, before that landlady decides she's gonna come up and—I dunno—eat us or something," I tell him.

"God dammit! Stop calling me Mister Potter, you self-righteous fuck! I'm gonna call you Sev and if you don't call me Harry in about three seconds, I swear I'm gonna pop you one!"

"Mister Potter—" I start out, and damn if he doesn't take a swing at me. It's more like a swipe than a punch, and I easily catch his wrist, but hey—that took some brass balls. We freeze like that for a long moment. He's panting hard and my breath is caught in my chest.

Suddenly, he's in my arms, and his mouth is over mine, and our tongues are dancing a tango. I manage to slide a leg between his knees, and he breaks off, moaning. "God, Severus, that—"

I'm not much in the mood to chat, so I shut him up good. His hands are undoing my suspenders, and I trail my hand down and cup his crotch. He kind of collapses on me at this, supported almost wholly by his hands on my shoulders. I can feel him moaning into my mouth, and at the moment I don't much _care_ if he's on the up and up, because _I'm _onthe up and up, and I got an armful of wildcat, and I got no kick with it.

I trail kisses down the side of his neck, biting here and there, and he lets out this long, shuddering moan, and neither one of us is in control of this anymore. The only thing that holds sway in this room is desire, and boy, do we have a lot of that. His hands reach up and tug at my hair, and I can feel him arching against me.

The feel of his length against my leg pretty much convinces me that vertical is not the way I wanna be—in part because I'm not sure how much longer my own legs are gonna support me. He has my shirt off and I have his pants undone, and I give his lips a quick nip, before wrenching myself away from those flushed, wet lures. "Please," he whimpers, looking up at me with desperate eyes.

I basically pick him up and toss him on the bed, which squeals on rusty springs for a full five minutes as he looks up at me, gasping with desire. I want him so bad I'm not sure I can move; it's mesmerizing, seeing those wide green eyes, those legs spread, the rhythmic metal noises of the springs. I feel tense—if his first time was with Malfoy, and he didn't really want it, how can I be sure he wants this? I stand, indecisive. As the sound of the bedsprings dies away, the broom thumps the floor again.

"GOD DAMMIT! KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF UP THERE!"

We both laugh, and the tension is broken. "For God's sake, if you don't take me right now, I think I'm going to die," he tells me earnestly, and my smile becomes a shark's grin.

I kneel between his legs and begin by licking his throat, drawing out longer and longer moans. Then I work my way down his body, grazing his chest with my teeth, lapping my tongue over a nipple. He's begging now, and I reward him by trailing my tongue down his stomach and taking him in my mouth. I don't do it for very long, 'cause he's far too close to the edge, but it adds to the overall pleasure.

Then I turn him over, and choke a bit before I can say anything at all. I let my tongue express my feelings again, in a more physical than usual way, until he's bucking against it, and then I switch for fingers instead. I'm leaning over him, moaning in his ear, telling him how beautiful he is, how _goddamn_ beautiful he is, and how I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much as I want him, right here and now. It's a litany of lust, and he's panting and hissing and grunting in return.

Finally it registers that he's ready, he's bucking back and moaning, "_God_, Sev, I can't fucking _wait_ anymore, God pleasepleaseplease, oh, God, why are you _doing _this to me, please Sev, just goddamn _take_ me already—"

And it's better than an engraved invitation—how can I not do what he wants? And then we're moaning and writhing and he's pushing his hips back against me, and I'm begging every bit as much as he ever did, and telling him, "It's so good it's so good it's sooo _good_," and he's bucking against me, swearing that he can't last much longer, but that's fine and dandy because neither can I. Finally I reach around and begin stroking him, and it isn't long at all before he cries out my name, God, sounds better than a choir full of angels, and I'm gasping his name, and then we're tumbling from the throbbing high and landing in one another's arms. I lie still, listening to our hearts thundering together, ever so slowly decelerating to a decent pace.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, IF I HEAR ANY MORE NOISE FROM UP THERE, I'M GONNA THROW YOUR ASS OUT!"

Harry starts to giggle and, tired though I am, I can't help but chuckle a little in between the wheezing. I'm not as young as I used to be, but hopefully not as old as I'm gonna get. His hands stroke my chest and he whispers, "That was pure out amazing. You were fantastic." He nudges his head under my chin, and I grin a little as I start to doze off.

"Back at you, kid," I tell him in reply.

"SHAAADDDUUUP!"

We snicker for a few more moments, before comfortable somnolence drags us off for good.

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Okay, so! That was the first sex scene I have ever, ever written, so please be gentle, as I am a sex scene virgin. And I don't know what to rate it, because I don't know how. Er. So, I hope that was a decent first effort, I did try really hard. And those of you that are all tetchy that I haven't updated my other fic yet, I thought I should let you know that I _did_ work on it; it's just that it's the last chapter, and I want it to be perfect. Also, I have some more pics on my website—buttons for the Blackbirds and Little Red Riding Hoods. They turned out really neat—I'm kinda keen on them, actually. (Damn it, I can't get off the patter!) So, anyhow, please check them out (especially ataraxis and Adele Sparks) and let me know what you think of them. If my stupid address doesn't print correctly here, I'll try posting it under my name at FF.net as well, but you're be able to find me at http:64.4.46.250/cgi-bin/linkrd?lang=EN&lah=7968d871295f18942a1c3c9fc1bd5fd7&lat=1088057621&hmaction=http%3a%2f%2fwww%2egeocities%2ecom%2ffoppagal%2f , which I'm damn sure is not gonna print. I'll try putting it on my LiveJournal account, as well—thanks to loupgarou for the suggestion. And if you ask for it in a review, I'm sure I can send you the address. There, problem solved! And there's also a drawing of Severus in his sexy trenchcoat/fedora, as well. It's all under the link at my fanfic drawings or art or something. Brilliant, can't even remember where I put stuff on my own site. So, until next time, when there will be a little more plot and a little less action! StarryGazer


	5. Part 5: Playboy and Bombshell

Part 5: Playboy and Bombshell

The next morning I wake up with a hangover, a swollen nose, and one humdinger of an idea. I wash up a bit and come back to find the kid still completely knocked out. He's nice-looking this way; curled up on his side, his inky hair spilled out against the pillow, bright eyes shut and long, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. There's a funny little scar right in the middle of his forehead, and I wonder where he got it. I'd like to let him sleep, but there are things I need to know, so I go over to the dresser and get out a pair of his pants. "Hey, Potter!" I call. He blinks sleepily at me, and catches a faceful of trousers. "We got things to do, so get a wiggle on."

He grunts, then rolls over and raises his rear in the air and shakes it a little. "Good enough?"

I laugh. "Not that kind of wiggle." Not that it's a bad wiggle. He's got a pretty nice one, actually. "Come on, get up." He groans, but slowly gets himself dressed.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see." The old bat downstairs is on the horn, and ignores us when we try to get a chance at using it, so I decide we oughta take a cab. That's probably a better idea, anyhow.

The cab smells like someone suffered greatly in it—the metallic tang of blood, the pungent odor of urine, the fetid stink of sweat; it's all there. If I could bottle it up into a cologne, I'd call it Musk Indescret, and make a hundred grand. You give it a fancy label, people will buy anything. Privately I'd call it Ode de Reeking Cab.

It isn't long before the smells start to make a kind of sense, though. We're barreling down the Boulevard at about a hundred and eighty—which you know, if you've ever driven the Boulevard, ain't even humanly possible—but apparently the cabbie don't know that, so no one tells him otherwise. Sure, they're _shouting_ it as he goes flying past, taking off rearview mirrors and scaring the hell out of little old ladies, but they ain't actively _interfering _with his driving, so they don't really count.

We take the corner at Second Street so fast I could swear we go up on two tires, and I know _I'm_ sweating, and Harry looks as if he's ready to add to the smell of piss, and I wonder how long it'll take before this clown hits something really large and stationary and we all complete the bouquet with a generous donation of blood.

By the time we pull up outside Malfoy Manor, I'm kinda burned because I can't gauge Harry's reaction reliably—his face had drained of blood before we managed to get near the place. I think it happened when we cut off that Studebaker, and made the guy swerve, and he nearly hit that poodle…yeah. And Harry let out kind of a squeak, and all. It was cute. Not worth what I had to pay the cabbie, but cute.

So now as we walk up the drive, he's giving me this dark glare, which I can't much read, because it could be because I dragged him along to his sugar daddy's, or it could be because I'd just forced him into taking a ride in Satan's Infernal Taxicab. In either case, his eyes clearly say, _I'm going to get you for this._ I smirk at him.

"I'm going to get you for this," he growls as we ring the bell.

A cheerful servant answers the door. "Harry Potter, sir! It is so good to see you!" The fellow's grin nearly cracks his face in two, and I have to think that he's pretty damn jolly, for being that ugly. "Is there some way I can help you, Harry Potter, sir?"

"Um, hello, Dobby," Harry says embarrassedly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We're here to have a chat with Mister Potter's old flame, Mister Malfoy," I interrupt. If there's anything worse than a servant, it's an obsequious servant. I don't mind 'em when they're sullen and rude—that's the way they're supposed to be. But fawning and chatty and gay—God help us.

"M—Master is in the drawing room," he tells us, suddenly not sounding quite so spunky.

We follow him into the room, and little Mister Sunshine announces us, like we were royalty or something. There's an albino runt languidly pouring himself a drink, but no sign of the fellow I'm looking for. "Mister Harry Potter to see Master Malfoy, sir," the grunt says, and the guy at the wet bar spins around, his face red with anger.

"I thought I told you never to do that! You can't just walk in anytime you please!" he snarls at Harry, who gives him a _look_.

I have to stare at the snot a few moments before it hits me; _this is Malfoy._ Of course it is—Malfoy junior. I guess I wasn't expecting that. I hear some jerk named Malfoy is forcing sweet little boys into making whoopee with him for money, and I naturally assumed that meant Lucius. My mistake. Kid must be a chip off the old block, though, but he's not got his father's presence.

"You must be Lucius's boy," I say. "I'm an old friend of your dad's." He looks a little doubtful at this, but keeps his mouth shut. I'm sure his father has a lot of friends stranger looking than myself. "You look like him, but a lot like your mom, too." He's blond, but his hair's not quite as white as his dad's—it's got a slight bit more of the yellow to it; that would be Narcissa's. Other than that, he's the spitting image of…both of them, I suppose. Aristocratic, kiss-my-ass demeanor…arrogant smirk…almost colorless eyes and skin. And that's why two anemics shouldn't have kids together. Harry gives him a smile. He's an ugly little bugger. Well, he's not. He's quite pretty, but anyone leering at my candy is ugly by definition. And about to get uglier, if I have my way. I smirk a little. "I haven't seen you at the meetings." I'm taking a risk here; betting that Lucius doesn't take the tyke with him yet. He's pretty young, and Lucius was always careful—with his own belongings. I offer him my hand.

He looks unsure before taking it, nodding and saying, "Draco Malfoy. Of course not…I haven't anything to offer, at the moment." His eyes flick to Harry and back to me. "Would you like a drink, Mister…?"

"I'll have whatever you're having," I reply, skipping the introduction. Chances are he's heard of me, and that he wouldn't be impressed. At the same time, I'm not gonna drag Harry into this by lying right in front of him when the lily would only find out later. He hands me a bourbon, and I take a swig. No point in being polite, not when I've come here specifically to rouse him up. And I want to have drunk all that beautiful liquor before upsetting things and maybe getting it spilled.

"So…what brings you here? Father's not at home, you see…he's away on business…" Draco raises his eyebrows, and it strikes me that his eyes are much rounder than Lucius's. Gives him this slightly more innocent air, which I ain't buying for a moment. I down the rest of my glass.

"I hear you came to my pal Harry here, when you wanted nookie?" I put forth, and watch the kid go several shades of crimson.

"You vile wretch," he sneers, managing to look disgusted, disdainful, and highly offended. "I've done no such thing! If you ever suggest such a thing again, I'll have you sued for slander!" His glare keeps shifting between me and the kid, and since he looks about ready to commit murder, if not a shocking display of poor manners, I step between them, laughing.

"Don't bother with all that; the jig is up, Draco Tomato," I sneer as I flop down in a Chermayeff settee. "Did you ever go back to his godfather's place to boff? And, if so, did you ever happen to nick a rare Tibetan manuscript while you were there?"

The boy is rendered nearly incoherent with fury. "You dare—plebeian—veritable _surfeit_ of lies—outrageous—have your liver removed and made into a paté," he splutters, one slicked lock falling dangerously into his eyes. He turns to Harry and advances across the room. "And you! You brought him—_this_—here—you're _disgusting_—I wouldn't doubt he's bending over for _you_ now, he's such an easy little quiff!"

I get to my feet, attempting to get between them again, but Harry just gives me a warning look. He takes out his cigarettes and lights one up. "It's funny," he muses, eyeing Draco, "but for all my faults, I'm sure I'm not nearly as repulsive as you are."

Draco's hand strikes him hard across the face, knocking the smoke from his lips, and Dobby is suddenly beside them, making squeaking noises and cleaning up his master's show of temper. The blond's eyes blister as they stare into Harry's own. It's not the first time I've seen the colour grey on fire. "I should have gutted you when I had the chance," he whispers fiercely.

To his credit, Harry does not even look a little bit ruffled. "Yeah, well. Live and learn, I always say," he replies coolly.

I'm right angry, and I jump to my feet, and grab hold of the nasty little triumph of the Aryan race. I smack him a couple of times, leaving his perfect hair dishevelled and his lips pulled back in a snarl. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing some kind of kinky game," I tell him. "You gave me the impression that you got a kick out of people getting knocked around. Now. If you have heard of the prophecy, you'd better tell me now—or so help me, I won't be responsible for my actions!" I snap at him.

I must look even more threatening than usual, because he quails. "I—I've never seen it," he insists. "I've heard of it, but I've never seen it." He glances at Harry, almost suspiciously.

"And what, exactly, have you 'heard' about it?" I sneer, leaning down into his face, and he grimaces and backs away toward the bar, and pours himself another drink.

"Not very much," he admits. "I've heard the—the Dark Lord wants it. That I've heard from my father—beyond that I know nothing."

"I think you're lying."

"Then why don't you prove it?"

I take a menacing step forward and he spins around, a heater in his hand. Must've been under the bar. "That ain't no way for a good host to treat his guests," I comment.

He merely smirks. "How fortunate for me that I don't consider you guests, but more of a minor infestation in need of a good extermination." He pauses thoughtfully. "_You_…wouldn't happen to have any idea of where the artefact went, do you?"

"Not a clue. But then again, it's not even noon. A lot of things can happen before nightfall. A man could rob a bank, make love, get sauced, or get himself shot before the end of the day. Hell, _I_ might even be able to locate a Tibetan prophecy. I'm a pretty good detective, I think it's within the scope."

"I'll pay you ten thousand dollars if you should locate it and bring it to me," he offers composedly and, for once, he looks like his father.

"You want to pay me to find it for you? What is this—are you going to make a bargain or are you going to shoot me?" I'm not unduly alarmed. I've gone up against far tougher numbers than this kid before.

He shrugs. "That can be your decision."

"Then I want half up front."

He looks surprised for a moment before realizing I'm being snide. He comes closer and points the pistol right at my nose. "You'd better stop being funny, you two-bit moron."

"I'll try, but I've a naturally amusing personality. It just brims over sometimes." He looks really angry and his gun hand jerks, and I take advantage of his wobbling paw to pop him in the face.

He's sitting on the floor, staring up at me, while I hold his gun. "Little boys shouldn't play with things like this. It's dangerous," I remark.

Suddenly, a voice is calling from the hall. "Draco? Draco, mon chere?" A woman slips through the door, and her hair is long and silky, and her gams are just what they ought to be. She smiles at us, her teeth white and even. I suppose most men would have fallen at her feet, but Draco was already there, and anyway I guess it was just her luck that none of us present were inclined to ogle her curves. "What is going on?" she asked, her smile faltering more at our lack of reaction than her bloody husband sitting on the floor.

"Nothing, Fleur," he tells her sullenly. "Just guests."

"And we were just leaving," I tip my hat to her. "A pleasure making your acquaintance, however brief," I add. "Oh, Draco," I call over my shoulder as Harry and I see ourselves out, "do tell your father that Severus sends his regards." A glimpse back tells me the remark did everything it should have; the kid is looking silently incensed—both with me and himself. I chuckle and hold the door open for Harry. "That was a roaring good time," I tell him. "Now lets go celebrate with a drink."


	6. Part 7: I’ve Got to See a Man About a Do...

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers: Lorra…you hope I don't _mind_? Mind what? A good review? Encouragement? Are you crazy? ; ) Adele Sparks…transparent Malfoys…that'd be a switch, wouldn't it? Spiral Digger—easily rectified. You can pay me under the table, mafia style. Just kidding, no profit, right? Winnie2, much appreciated.

And a triple thank you to Stella Hobbit, for being my guardian Beta. I need to stop writing once I'm so tired that my eyes actually shut, but she does an admirable job at cleaning up my messes.

Now, onto the fic!

* * *

Part 6: Cons and Convolutions

We're halfway back to the cab when Harry suddenly stops, patting his jacket. "Hey Boss, wait up a moment, would you?" he says to me. "I think I dropped my cigarette case in there."

I glance back at the house, thinking _That guy can probably afford some top-notch goons. I'll bet he has a few on hand for cases like this. _"I'll buy you another one, Beautiful," I tell him.

"Nah, you can't," he whines. "It's irreplaceable! Sirius bought it for my birthday last year. It's inscribed and everything!" Those big, soft eyes are pleading, and a shade just touching irresistible.

"All right," I groan. "I'll go get your damned toy—you go wait in the car." I start trudging toward the door, and he grabs onto my arm and holds on for dear life.

"Wait! Stop; you can't go back in there. Do you have any idea what he'll _do _to you?" He's digging his heels in, really making it hard.

"Aw, it's real sweet for you to get concerned about me, but I can take care of myself," I assure him. I hope he's not gonna start getting all clingy and shrewish. One time in the sack and they think they own you.

"No!" he shouts, taking me by surprise. "I want to get it myself," Harry adds through clenched teeth. "And he's less likely to kill me. I can go back in there and tell him I'm sorry and all, and maybe he won't be so sore."

He's got me baffled. Why the hell would he want to go and do that? "Why the hell would you want to go and do that?" I look him up and down, and he kind of looks like getting teary on me.

"He _knows_ things; don't you understand? He's an _in_, Sev! I can't afford to cut him dead or have him cut _me_ dead, not here, not now. Not while I'm still searching for that text."

"You go in there, kiddo, and he ain't gonna cut you dead. He's got a gun—he'll _shoot _you dead. Far less effort on his end," I point out, but the doll is adamant.

"No, he won't. Trust me, Sev. I know Draco Malfoy." Yeah, that's what I used to think about his father. "I've seen him far angrier than this. This is nothing, Sev. I can handle it. Trust me." Damn, but those eyes make it hard to think.

"I'd like to, but seeing as how you've fed me line after line—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I haven't lied to you!" he shouts, his face swinging between anger and hysteria. "I _never_ lied to you!"

"Yeah, well, maybe not—but you sure did leave a lot out of your original story, Sweetheart. You didn't tell me nothing about this business with Malfoy, you didn't tell me nothing about your godfather bein' in the stir, you just left stuff out left and right. Ever hear of the sin of omission?"

He laughs humorlessly. "I'm sure I've committed much worse sins than _that_." He really looks choked up, now, and I'm starting to get uneasy. Like I said; I don't do too good with the waterworks.

"Fine," I tell him. "You wanna go in there and swallow some lead, you go right ahead. I ain't gonna stop you. But I'm telling you right now; you go dyin' before you've paid me up, and I'm gonna dig up your corpse and make you sorry."

"Is _that_ what you're worried about? Well, no problems there, then. Here's your dough—take it! Here!" He flings some green at me—more than I knew he had, and turns and stomps up to the door.

I try to watch him go while at the same time making sure none of the money blows away. What the hell is wrong with that kid? Throwing money around like that. By the time I've got it all cleared up, I'm good and mad. I shove the stuff into my pocket and stamp through Malfoy's daffodils on the way to the front door, not knowing if I want to save the brat from his fate, or just wring his neck myself.

Before I get there, he comes marching back out looking none the worse for wear. I gape at him for a second before pulling myself together. I'm a seasoned flatfoot, right? I've seen just about everything. Besides, I've _been_ with this kid, and so has Malfoy. We both know he's a scorcher. Harry could probably sweet talk his way into or out of anything. I scowl and ask him, "Did you get it?"

Wordlessly, he holds it up. I can read the inscription. It says, _I'm proud of you, Firebolt. With love from Sirius._

"Firebolt? I've heard of calling someone a firecracker, maybe, but Firebolt?" He ignores me. Then he flounces right on past me and down to the cab. I follow and we both get in. I give the cabbie directions to Harry's place.

Harry's so mad he won't even speak to me, and he won't take the money back. Finally, I give in. "Look, Gorgeous; I'm sorry for accusing you and all that, but it don't _look_ good when you keep things from me. Besides, how am I supposed to know what I'm doing when I don't have all the information I need?" Still silence from his side of the cab, although he does look a little green. I'm guessing this has more to do with the fact that our esteemed chauffer took that stop sign as a suggestion and breezed through it doing eighty, more than my ability to generate sickening guilt with my elegant words. I sigh. "You sure don't make it easy on a fellow, do you?"

He gives a little huff and sticks his lower lip out just a bit, and I know I'm gone. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that I'll distance myself later, but really—I'm dizzy for the dame, even if he ain't a dame. I must be getting old—or soft. Or both. "Look, Doll, I said I was sorry. What more do you want from me?" I've never been good at this sort of thing. I rack my brains, looking for something. "I'll take you someplace nice for chow, how's that? Or I'll buy you something pretty."

His lips twitch a little at this, and he rolls his eyes. "With _my_ money, I presume?"

"Well, you wouldn't take it back, and I don't have no other money," I tell him, and he laughs. I reach over and turn his chin toward me so I can look him in the eyes. "You still mad at me, or do I gotta blow all your hard-earned scratch on you?"

He smiles again, shaking his head. "You're screwy, you know that?"

"Yeah. You make me kind of screwy, so it's your fault." I sneak a quick peep at the driver, who's happily ignoring us; he's doin' his thing and careering along at breakneck speed, zigging here and zagging there, cheating his own death and likely causing other people's. I smirk and lean over and plant one on the bridge of the kid's nose. "I'm gonna give you the rest of the day off; how's that?"

He looks disappointed. "But what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna see a friend of mine." He bites his lip, looking at me worriedly. I lean over until my mouth is level with his ear. "Don't worry. He's an ugly old coot. I promise I'll come back to you to get my kicks tonight. And maybe then I'll have some news for you."

He looks tired and sad, all of a sudden, but he tries to give me a smile. "I hope so, Sev. I do hope so."

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My next stop is downtown. I drop the kid off and look at the driver for a few minutes, contemplating. Then I figure; what the hell. He ain't got me killed yet. Plus, the way he drives, I'm a real hard to hit target—that's a big plus. "Police headquarters," I tell the guy, and he nods happily before punching the accelerator like he's going up against Joe Louis for the heavyweight championship.

When we pull up outside headquarters, I tell the guy to wait for me again; I'll only be a few minutes. That way, I can tell Dumbledore I've got a cab waiting, and he won't have the urge to question me politely on every topic from the World Series to what I had for breakfast.

Once I get indoors, it's but the work of a minute—all right, a quarter of an hour, maybe—to get the guy at the desk to let me see the Chief. I whine and plead and threaten, and finally ask where the nearest public phone is. Then I go and call the guy up and tell him I'm from the Mayor's office, and the Mayor wants to talk to Jones, and put him on the horn, like yesterday. He leaps to his feet to find Jones—there's always a Jones—and I see him from down the hall, and slip on past. What a chump.

I flit into the Chief's office, feeling smug. That's when I hear his voice from the depths of his chair—which is turned from me. "It's good to see you, Severus, very good indeed. How can I help you?"

_You can start by not knowing things about me that you ain't supposed to know_, I think, but I don't say it. Instead I say, "I just came to thank you for the pity case you threw my way. Easy money, and the kid's a wild thing in the bedroom."

He shifts, and even though the room is dark, the chair is dark, and the chair is still mostly turned away from me, I swear I can see the amusement battling with admonishment in those twinkling eyes. "I don't think the case is quite as simple as all that," is all he says.

"You got knowledge that says it isn't?" I arch a brow and pull out a stogie, rolling it around in my long fingers. I hate being in here—I always feel like a patsy who's about to get the rug yanked out from under him.

"Would you like a mint?" he asks, turning and pointedly looking at my cigar. No smoking, not in here. I sigh and shake my head, sliding the cigar away. "Very well then. I do have some knowledge which you might not have gotten a hold of, yet," he admits. _What a shock_, I think dryly. "Minerva has been in touch." I hide a wry grin. Minerva is this cute little old lady who just happens to be the Mayor's head secretary, and I'm pretty sure she's sweet on our old Police Chief.

"Oh, yeah? What's the news from your lady friend?" I plop down in the seat across from him, suddenly a bit more comfortable with all of this.

He pointedly ignores the remark. "Several new facts have come to light. The first is that the Mayor may be involved in this."

I shrug. When isn't he? Our esteemed Mayor has his fingers in nearly everybody's pies. "And?"

"And…we don't know what his angle is, but he has been seen several times in rather exclusive clubs lately, while in the company of one Mister Lucius Malfoy." He raises his brows at me.

I grimace. "Oh, those Malfoy men. They do get around, don't they?" I sigh heavily. The father is even better looking than the son. They're bombshells in their own way, both of them. A funny thought strikes me—maybe Lucius is doing the Mayor. I snort. Dumbledore gives me a questioning look, and I sober up. "I'll look into it," I advise him.

"I think I ought to warn you to watch your back," he tells me, leaning back in his chair.

"Don't need telling," I grunt in return. I'm _dying _for a stogie. I'd settle for a pull from my flask, but that's a no-no, as well. "Anything else?"

"Just a bit of news on Tom Riddle," he says, using the man's Christian name. If you want to call it that. It still seems odd that Dumbledore can dig things like that up—things like the childhood names of famous gangsters, who've gone so far from that life that their own mother's probably wouldn't know them.

I shift, and realize I'm really uneasy. Man, I don't call the Dark Lord anything _but_ the Dark Lord, and I don't care if I _am_ a coward because of it. I saw him use a knife to play tic-tac-toe on a guy's chest once, and I've learned not to call him _anything_, if I can help it. "Yeah? What's the word on that?"

Dumbledore's eyes gleam. "He admires Hitler." Yeah, well. He would. "I believe he intends to join Hitler's cause, in the hopes that Hitler will give him certain…recompenses. Hitler wants something he believes Voldemort has. A Tibetan Text." Don't tell _me_ about Tibetan Texts. "If Voldemort can present it to Der Fuehrer, he'll be considered as the man's new right-hand man. You know, of course, what he did with the last one."

"Mmm," I reply distractedly. I wonder what recompenses Hitler promised. The Chief is silent a long time, and I look up at him. "Is that everything?"

"Unless you have any questions." He smiles brightly at me. "Tell me, are you sure you wouldn't like a mint? They're really quite good. I'm glad, by the way, to hear that you and Harry have been getting on so well. That's splendid, splendid."

"I do have a couple of questions," I interject quickly, hoping to head him off at the pass. I ain't gonna sit here and make small talk with the Police Chief. We are _not_ friends, whatever he thinks. He merely waits expectantly, while I let myself spill whatever I want to know. "What do you know about Malfoy junior?"

"He is not directly involved with Voldemort, although he would like to be. His father has not allowed him to interact with any of the major players, yet," he replies.

"Would he try something on his own?"

"Perhaps. He is certainly ambitious enough, and he has the Malfoy connections. Although he is inexperienced and unsophisticated, he might attempt his own maneuvers. Do you suspect him?"

Of something. Aloud, I only say, "I'm…not sure, yet." I think for a few moments, trying to sort the web out in my head. "What's the Moony factor? Where's he fit in?"

The Chief looks away, and my stomach goes cold. "Remus Lupin is a non-issue."

"The hell you say! He does business with the Mayor, he could well be doing business with Malfoy—"

"All the same, he isn't an issue. Leave it alone, Severus. There is no connection." He looks at me over the top of his glasses, and I start to get angry. I get to my feet and start to pace.

"No connection! No fucking connection? You've gotta be _kidding _me! He's friends with the guy who owned that Tibetan thingy, he's in up to his ears with the criminal underworld, he's definitely got _some _kind of heavy duty problem on his mind these days, and you're sitting there telling me to forget about it? What's the deal?"

"There is no deal. He is simply not important to this enterprise," Albus shrugs. He looks uncomfortable under my glare for all of two seconds, before smiling brightly up at me. "How about those Red Sox?"

I cringe. "I have a cab waiting," I snarl, before whirling and beating it through the door. I march past the front desk, giving the sap sitting there my patented Medusa Number Five. He looks shocked and opens his mouth, but I'm out the door and down the steps before he can say anything.

I throw myself into the cab and give the driver my best imperious look, knowing I'm probably appearing more sulky at the moment. "Home, James," I growl.

The guy blinks once, the first time I've seen any indication that he was really paying attention to what I said. "That the place I got you and that kid from this morning?"

"Yes. No." I think it over. I'm not going back to the kid, yet. He's a distraction, and I want to get something done. And dammit, I can't help but think about that moonshine runner. He was _living _with the kid, for cryin' out loud! He had all sorts of opportunities to steal that thing! The last thing I wanna do right now, though, is tell Harry anything about that. We already got into it once today. "No, I got a better idea," I tell the cabbie, and give him my office address.

When we finally pull up, I give him some of Harry's cash, feeling irritable about the whole thing. I've got to get me some other kind of dough. It makes me feel weak, relying on the kid for cash. I climb the steps, thinking it over. I could give the Tibetan thing to Malfoy, if I find it, since he offered a substantial amount. But that would mean _not_ giving it to Harry, which would probably mean the end of nookie, at least with him. I feel frustrated, as I move to open my office door. I want the money, I want the kid, I want the text. I can have either the money or the kid, but not both, and neither one until I get the text.

"Mister Spade?" There's a man in my office! How the hell did that happen? I look back at the doorknob, wondering if I'd forgotten to lock it last night. I was kind of punch drunk at the time. And the normal kind of drunk, as well. Well, shit. Don't that just beat all?

"Can I help you with something?" I eye the twerp warily. He's a creepy little fellow with a weak chin and a goaty little waxed beard. Yuck. Plus, the way he keeps wringing his hands is getting on my nerves. This guy just about _reeks_ of desperation.

"I'm hoping that you can. I am looking for certain artifact. I was told by a…mutual acquaintance that you have the key to acquiring it. It is rare work, out of Tibet. I believe you are familiar with this subject?"

Fuck, does _everybody_ want this thing? And why the hell do they all think I should have it? The way things stand now, I half expect Mickey Mouse to pop out of the closet, asking me if I've seen the damn thing. This is getting SUSPICIOUS, with a capital everything. "Who wants to know?"

"Ah, yes. I'm sorry; we have not been introduced. My name is Igor Karkaroff. I am a collector of rare antiquities—a _passionate_ collector. And I _must _own this particular item. If you have any idea of its whereabouts, I am sure I can make it worth your while."

"Oh, I see. Who was it that referred you to me, again?" I asked him pulling out my cigar and lighting up. It seems like the perfect time, and I have to hide a malicious grin when he coughs delicately.

"It was…a friend of a friend, actually," he says, avoiding the question. He's playing with his fingernails, as though they're of captivating interest. "This text is extremely important to me. I should like to obtain it before…someone less reputable gets it first." I wonder who that could possibly be. "I am willing to offer a substantial sum for it…to the tune of fifty thousand dollars." He sneaks a look at me, and I keep the deadpan on.

"Not the best offer I've had for it," I lie, and he scowls. _It's a lie unless you count the perk of making it with the kid,_ I think as he wanders from behind the desk.

"Seventy thousand, then."

"No dice."

"One hundred, and I am completely prepared to pay it, but not one red cent more." He is licking his lips nervously, and it is extremely unattractive.

Why the hell is he doing this? Why does he want the thing? Why is he asking me? I hesitate. "Well, I can't blame you for wanting it. A previously undiscovered poem on the origin of the legend of Fa Mulan? A collector's dream," I remark casually, watching him from the corner of my eye.

He doesn't even hesitate. "Yes, a beautiful poem, by all accounts. I simply must have it. Will you take the case?" Ah ha!

"I'll consider it," I advise him. "Let me think on it overnight. I must admit, a hundred grand ain't chicken feed. If you'll give me a number to reach you, I'll call you first thing in the morning with my decision."

"Very well, then." He reaches into his pocket, I'm assuming for a business card or the like, and instead pulls out a Remington. Well, shit. "If you're certain you're not in possession of the text, Mister Spade, then you won't mind if I check to make sure you're telling the truth."

"Be my guest," I tell him bitterly, well aware that I can't stop him. He _is_ a twitchy, wimpy thing, though. If the gun weren't aimed at my chest, I'm sure I could take him. He begins rummaging through my things, making a mess of all the hard work Harry did last night. Bastard. After he's dumped the contents of most of my desk drawers and file cabinets on the floor, he steps over to me. He begins patting my jacket, and I grit my teeth.

Suddenly the door swings open, and Harry stands framed there. "Hey, Boss. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I get some more filing…" he trails off as he sees the guy with the gun. "Karkaroff?" Interesting.

"You! You double-crossing—" Igor begins. That's even _more_ interesting, but I don't have the luxury of letting him continue to enlighten me. The minute his attention is focused wholly on Harry, I coldcock the cock sucker. He stumbles backwards, dropping the gun, but nearly managing to keep his feet. Better than Malfoy, at any rate. I'd congratulate him on that, only he's a jackass and he just pulled a gun on me, see?

As he tries to get back up, Harry swoops into the room and snatches the gun off the floor. He turns to me, and I tense, but he only smiles and hands me the gun. "That was a _nasty_ thing to do to someone, Sev," he tells me. Then he winks. "But you did it _very well_."

* * *

And thanks to Loupgarou for inspiring this whole shebang in the first place. Guess what? I finally saw Casablanca for the first time ever! It was great! And hysterical! It was the mother of all clichés—but only because it was the source of all those clichés! I loved it. And I loved Bogey. Count yourself as having made a convert, Loup. I love ya.

Oh, guys! Before I forget, I _really, really _need betas for my other work, my Harry/Remus. I need someone that notices inconsistencies, especially, because I think I'm writing a lot of them. So I'm _begging _you, (see what you've reduced me to) really, truly begging you to help me out. You could rec me someone, if you can't do it yourself. Please? I'll do anything!

Oh, all right. Bedtime now. J'taime, my dears.

Starry


	7. Nothing But Trouble

As you all know this whole thing was for Loupgarou, who writes very hot Snarrys. I'm envious, but this was the best I could do.

And thanks more than a quarter mil to Stellahobbit, who kept the lines in line in this one. Here's lookin' at you, kid!

NOTE: I have decided I don't care for I do not plan on stopping my posting here, but am looking elsewhere for places to post. If any of you have any ideas of good sites for my stuff, please do let me know. I apologize for not having this up last week; the Nazis here BANNED me for a few days for dirty talk or something. So, if this happens again, please remember that I always try to post my stuff on my site, at least, which can be found at the author's info page, or you can always feel free to e-mail me and ask what's going on. Who knows? I might even send you the unfinished, rough-draft of whatever I'm working on at the time, if you're interested. I love you all dearly!

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Part 8: Nothing but Trouble

When I finally make it back to the flat, the kid's dressed like he's ready to hit the town. "Nice glad rags," I tell him. "You planning on going somewhere?"

He jumps a little before he realizes it's me. "I don't see why I should tell you that," he grumbles. "When you take off without even telling me where you're going, and all."

I laugh. "How about I tell you where I been, instead?"

He cocks his head, intrigued. "Yeah, all right, but make it quick."

I'm a little taken aback by that, but what the hell. "I think I can get your toy back for you tonight." That's the gist, anyhow. I grin at him.

He freezes. "What?"

I shrug. "Rumor has it Peter The Rat has your text, and he's selling it to Karkaroff tonight, for the tune of a hundred thou, at least."

His jaw drops. "That dirty rat! He was gonna double cross me! I'll _kill _him! Aw, dammit. I need a ciggy." His nervous hands shuffle around in his pockets, looking for his fix.

"You'd better watch that," I tell him, half in a daze. "You got some sort of oral fixation going there. Means you got too much sexual buildup, needing something in your mouth all the time."

He manages a brash smirk. "You gonna give it to me, take the edge off?"

"What—now? Wait. What the hell do you mean, he was gonna double cross you?" I ask, mind slowly catching up and passing my libido.

He kinda looks chagrinned. "Well…you weren't around, see, and he sent someone to talk with me. He said he'd sell it back to me. I'm supposed to meet him tonight, make the exchange."

"_What?_" Of all the stupid stunts to pull! I can't hardly believe he'd go and do something like that. "What the hell is the matter with you, agreeing to something that crazy?" Something else niggles in the back of my brain. "And what were you planning on buying it with?"

He looks totally unrepentant. The featherbrained little dolt. "Well, with the money we took from Karkaroff, at least in part. And some I got elsewhere. The rest I borrowed from Lupin."

"That's funny, 'cause I was with him not half an hour ago and he didn't mention it to me. He told me a boatload of other stuff, but that wasn't part of it."

He shifts from one foot to the other. "I asked him not to tell you. I thought you'd be mad."

"You weren't planning on telling me about this at _all_?" I'm horrified. The kid would be in way over his head with gangsters like these, and he just jumps in without backup. What a _moron_! "How the hell come you're paying good money for something that's rightfully yours, anyhow?"

Harry blinks those gorgeous peepers at me. "Well jeez, Boss! We don't want _Voldemort_ to get his hands on it, do we? That's what Karkaroff's planning for it. And Sirius…would have wanted me to take good care of it. Anyhow, I can take care of myself."

"You can _take care of yourSELF?" _I'm aware of my voice creeping up a notch, taking on an edge of hysteria. "You have no idea what you're doing, you dumb little bunny! This isn't a _game_! These are mean guys with guns and fists and real bad tempers."

"I _know that_, Sev. I wasn't gonna go _alone_. If you hadn't made it back in time, I still would've brought Fred and George. They're on their way over, right now. We're supposed to meet Pettigrew behind The Pearly Shell at ten. Look; I probably wouldn't even have gone without you. Probably. But we _can't_ let Karkaroff get it. We just can't! You gotta understand." He's giving me those wide eyes again, and I kick myself for ever getting involved with such a piece of trouble.

"You're gonna regret this," I tell him. There's a knock at the door, and in steps a redhead.

"You ready to go?" he asks Harry, who looks to me.

"We're _both_ gonna regret this."

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We hang out at the club a bit, sneaking a peak at the action and getting an idea of the layout. I know the area pretty well, so I outline possible escape routes to the kid, who seems impressed. Stupid kid—he don't know what he's getting into. I hate dives like this. The crowd here wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. Well, they _might_ piss on you if you were on fire, but only if that happened to be where they planned on pissing anyway.

By nine thirty we're out back, with a twin at each end of the alley and my piece just itchin' to be in my hand. The itch gets worse when The Rat finally shows up. He's this kinda scrawny thing; you can tell he used to be a real porker, but now he's all saggy and baggy. He gives me and my boy an ugly little smile. He has this gunsel with him, all shiny and strong. I ain't impressed.

"Good to see you again," he leers at Harry, who doesn't dignify him with a response. "You got the dough?" Harry nods, sets down the briefcase and nudges it over to the guy with his foot. Inside is about a hundred thousand worth of lettuce, more or less. "Well, that _is_ nice," he comments. He peers into the shadows. "Can you top it?"

Karkaroff steps out, lookin' as twitchy and wimpy as ever. He dumps something at The Rat's feet. "I want to see it, before you pick the money up. More than two hundred large," he says confidently. "I've been saving for a rainy day."

Pettigrew laughs. "And it's about to start pouring." He gestures behind him, and the muscle man steps forward with a gunnysack. Pettigrew sticks a hand in, and out comes this clay tablet. I don't know why, but all this time I'd expected paper.

"Is that it?" Karkaroff whispers, entirely too much awe in his voice. I mean, damn! It's dried mud.

Harry jumps forward, and I have to grab him by the back of his shirt. "That's _mine_!" he snaps. "Goddammit, you two-timing, underhanded, yellow-bellied—"

One of the twins must've heard the commotion, because suddenly he's there at our side. Karkaroff is taking the tablet, but when old Red shows up, the whole place suddenly boils over.

Pettigrew's boy has a gun out, and Karkaroff is fumbling for one as well. I jam my hand into my pocket, but come up empty. I look up in shock, to see my piece in Harry's hand, and that kid's firing like a pro.

The text explodes, chips of prophecy flying everywhere.

Everyone is still a moment, just staring.

"You little _bitch_!" Karkaroff screams. "I want my money back," he snarls at Pettigrew, who shows his long incisors and shakes his head. Karkaroff starts fumbling for the gun again, and Pettigrew's kid is letting out a shot, and I'm grabbing my heat out of Harry's hand, and one of the twins is on the move…

In seconds, Karkaroff is lying dead at our feet. One of Harry's buddies winged Pettigrew's guy, then popped the Rat right in the kisser. I got my pea-shooter aimed right at the Rat. He just tries to snigger at me.

"George, see what he's got on him," Harry instructs, all business-like. "Fred, pick up the money." They go to work, and George looks up, smiling.

"Check it out—ice!" We stare at his hand, where a dozen or so nifty little, likely-hot diamonds sit. Suddenly, there are shouts at the end of the alley. The Rat takes off, and George only chases him a few feet before coming to a dead stop.

"Christ, someone called the bulls," Fred grunts. "Let's get out of here before they cop us." Well, my escape route came in handy. At least something went right.

I take the money from Fred, and lead them through the maze that is downtown. "C'mon, Kitten. Use your getaway sticks." I chew on it as we're slipping through the darkness. "I think someone called them beforehand," I say, not even sure why I think it. It's just instinct, and my instincts are really yelling right now. Too bad I'm too busy saving my skin to pay 'em any real attention. No one else answers.

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When we're back at my office, which was the nearest place I could think of, I collapse into a chair and pull the shades. _If I take the cash straight to Dumbledore…_ I muse.

"George, go outside and keep an eye on things," Harry instructs. Good thinking; there's probably someone keeping an eye on us. I wish we hadn't let Pettigrew get away, but what the hell. The Chief is gonna be real pleased about what I uncovered. I grin and light up a self-congratulatory cigar.

Harry takes something from Fred, and I'm sitting there, picturing commendations and whatnot and watching that creep Goyle poppin' his knuckles and not being able to do anything about it. "Thanks for everything," the kid says, and plants a kiss on my lips. When I open my eyes, he's got a gun trained right on me. I put the cigar back in my mouth, staring. "You were a big help tonight, but it's kind of too bad you knew the layout so well. Made it impossible to leave you holding the bag. I'm sorry that it means I'll have to rub you out."

I spit and glare at him. "And here I thought you just wanted to rub me." It's all coming together—the fancy car, blowing money on a private dick, all that kind of shit while the will was still in probate. Man, have _I_ been a sucker. "Did you kill your godfather?"

"Don't be stupid. But nothing was going to be legally mine for years. I just took what was already mine a bit early, and sold it. How was I to know Voldemort would offer more? Fred, hold his hands behind his back." The little minx slides those clever fingers along my jaw. "Draco and I were gonna give it to the Dark Lord. Now that the text's gone…maybe we'll head down to Mexico. But, well, Draco _is _rather boring. Why don't you drop the 'good boy' act you got going with the Chief, and join me instead?" Those green eyes rake down my chest, flicking up again to hold my gaze. Between the heat of his hand and the scorching look he gives me, it's a wonder the room hasn't gone up in flames.

"No can do, Sweetheart," I tell him. "You're a hot little number, I gotta admit, but I ain't an easy mark, and I won't go to the pen for a pretty face."

He gives me a look that's a cross between a pout and a half-smile. I notice those beautiful lips are just begging to be kissed, and he reads my mind.

"Tip the velvet just once more, for old time's sake?" he suggests, and slides his arms around my neck. He sucks gently on my lower lip before slipping that silky heat into my mouth. I figure I'm about to die in any case, so I might as well enjoy myself on the way out. Our tongues make love to each other, and I feel him lean into me, and one of his legs kicks up behind him. Yeah, I'm _that good_. Finally, he starts to pull away, and I consider biting him. It sure ain't like he don't deserve it, but I control myself. What can I say? I'm a gentleman.

"It was nice knowing you, Boss," he tells me softly, and raises the pistol again. He aims it right at my chest, and those bright green eyes are shining with tears. _Crocodile tears,_ I tell myself, but a moment later he lowers the gun. "I can't do it," he whispers hoarsely. He puts the snub nose away, giving me a mocking smile—only I can't tell which one of us it's making fun of. "Damn, baby, if you didn't get under my skin. I broke all the rules for you."

"Yeah? Same here, doll-face," I say to him.

He slides over to the door, one delicious hip after the other, and winks at me over his shoulder. "Don't follow me down any more dark alleys," he warns in a sultry voice. "You gonna let me and my loot be?"

I think of the more than quarter mil he's toting around, the very-stolen diamonds, and those nights at his place with his sweat as slick as extra virgin olive oil. "Nuh-uh. Wherever you go, I'm gonna be there. I'll bust your ass someday. Again." I give him a smirk, and damn if he doesn't give me a genuine smile in return.

"I'll be waiting for it. Fred? Make sure he's out long enough to give us a good head start."

As soon as he's gone, Fred spins me around to face him. The last thing I remember seeing is that large freckled fist, hurtling through the air towards my face.

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Epilogue

I wake up on the floor of my office, bruised and bloody. Eh, what the hell; at least I'm alive. I give myself a tentative examination with prodding fingers. Two ribs probably broken. Black eye like you wouldn't believe. I'm roughed up again, but it could be worse. There's a small stack of bills sitting on my desk, along with a note. _For services rendered._ Oh, that's peachy. The little sass.

I'm still alive. Damn, but I must be a helluva kisser. Things are looking up. I'm still alive and kicking, and there's a green-eyed knockout with a pile of greenbacks out there, just waiting for me to corner him. I decide tonight I'm gonna get me a bottle of champagne and a coupla steaks. One for my plate, one for my eye.

For now, I crawl into my chair and kick back with my hip flask, thinking of that dark-haired vamp and all the things I'm gonna do once I get my mitts on him. I raise the flask and grin. "Here's to Mexico, and dirty little scoundrels with big green eyes." I take a long swig. Yeah, the good-looking ones are always trouble. But like I always say—the ones that are trouble are the only ones worth it.

The End

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Now, I hope you all got my sly little nod to canon in this very au chap—you might have noticed; I had the prophecy shatter just like it should have done. I'm afraid I couldn't keep it _too_ canon and still make it surprising, but I did try not to take too many liberties with personalities and such. Well, I _did_ make Harry the Double-Crossing Dame, but this fic just cried out for that. I let Lupin have his demons and his morals, kept Hermione as the know-it-all and the Weasleys' as Harry's 'friendly place,' and even considered sticking Colin Creevy in as a paperboy standing on a street corner yelling 'Extra! Extra!' although back in those days it supposedly sounded more like 'Wuxtree! Wuxtree!' And I didn't work it in, but my original outline had Sev shooting Voldemort—just so I could say something along the lines of 'Riddled with bullets.' I love a bad pun.

Loupgarou1750—I just realized I kind of based my Severus mostly off of Indiana Jones. Sorry about that, I was going more for Bogart, but then hey, I imagine so would you. (Hee hee, I think that's a good little joke. You know, going for Bogart? Eh.) Anyhow, thanks for inspiring this funky little work. I had a lot of fun with it.

Those last two scenes were what I started with, and I built backward from there. I couldn't resist having an old-fashioned kiss where Harry's leg kicked up behind him, and a smug Severus saying, 'Yeah, I'm _that good,_' to the reader. It made me giggle. (I'm glad Stellahobbit liked it, too.) And this led me to snickering and putting in where Sev wakes up and realizes he's still alive and thinks, 'Damn, I must be a helluva kisser.' So those were the two bits the whole story sort of sprang from. Well, that and Loupgarou's brilliant idea to have a Hardboiled Snarry in the first place.

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed reading it, and please review as always. I hope you continue to read my other stuff—this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Starry


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